What Dreams May Come
by Besina
Summary: Once again, Sherlock finds himself drawn to John while he slumbers, and has a brilliant (and very bad) idea. Part 3 of the "Late Night with Sherlock" series, though it stands alone just fine.


John awoke slowly, a faint stinging in his upper arm, his head feeling muzzy. He gradually opened his eyes. His room was dark. _Very dark_. Even the light from the streetlamps didn't shine in his windows as it usually did. He didn't feel very awake.

He tried to turn over but his limbs wouldn't cooperate. He couldn't move - he wasn't restrained by anything. Was he paralyzed? His body started to panic for a moment before his rational mind kicked in - sleep paralysis. The body's defense mechanism to keep itself from trying to act out it's dreams or doing something to get itself hurt, lacking in somnambulists... his mind wandered away for a few moments before regaining his train of thought.

Just sleep paralysis - his body hadn't woken up enough to shake it off, which explained the muzzy feeling in his head - he hadn't actually fully woken up yet. In fact, he was still tired and the bed was warm and welcoming. Best just to close his eyes and go back to sleep. He was probably half dreaming anyway.

He would have given a much greater start at the touch had he not been feeling so dreamy at the time. There was something warm - a hand, yes, hand - caressing his leg through the duvet. Another joined it on his other leg. Apart from the mild shock of the first touch, it was in itself quite soothing. Further proof he was just dreaming; if this had been reality, he would have been out of bed, halfway across the room and pounding whomever had snuck into his room into a pulp by now. But no, he felt content, just content to lie here and feel those hands travel over him.

He shifted his gaze to peer down his body at whoever was near the foot of the bed, but it was dark - far too dark to see. Again, dream. His room was always aglow with the light from the lamps outside. It'd never be this dark in reality.

He felt the matress compress at the far end of the bed as someone climbed onto it. Depressions on either side of his legs and hips as whoever it was crawled up over him. He felt the covers being slowly pulled back - his body exposed to the air. Was this a sex dream? Sure seemed like one, but less disjointed - more realistic.

Oh yeah, he thought... he knew this: what did they call it? Vivid dreaming? No, no, something where... god, how did it go? You could do it if you got your mind in the right place before you fell asleep? Something like that... Ah! Lucid! Lucid dreaming. Was that what this was? Did you remember lucid dreams? His mind wandered again.

He felt hot breath graze across him just below his navel. Soft lips descended to place a lingering kiss there. He breathed in slowly and let out a contented sigh.

The lips moved across his stomach, soft kisses and nibbles scattering over his skin. His cock was starting to take an increased interest in the goings-on as it began to stiffen. Now hands were back, rubbing the insides of his thighs softly, teasingly, the hot breath now wafting across his privates. He moaned quietly.

The hands felt long and dexterous, soft at the palms, a bit calloused at the fingertips. They reminded him of someone - it didn't matter. It was a dream after all, and some nameless, faceless lover was touching him.

He felt soft curls brush against his cock and bollocks, then realised they were being nuzzled by someone's head, someone gently rubbing against them, cat-like. It felt silky smooth. He rather wished his body would wake up some so that he could move and arch back against the pressure, but it was rather erotic not being able to. He still felt half asleep and heavy. It was nice just to enjoy this too. Some part of his brain told him he was likely to wake up to sticky sheets in the morning, but he couldn't be arsed to care.

A warm mouth descended over his length before giving a soft pull of suction, and he let out a small cry. He wondered how much he could control this dream because there are some things he very much wanted that mouth to do. Another magnificent suck drew him down into rich warmth then slid back up, a slow pace being established. He moaned again as he felt his body respond, his eyes sliding shut once more - there really wasn't any reason to keep them open; it was just as dark with them open as it was with them closed. Another soft sigh came from him as that mouth and tongue slowly slid over his length, enveloping him time and again.

It was much too slow and langorous to get him off, but it felt magnificent! After a few minutes of this exquisite torture, it stopped, and hands and tongue moved down to pay attention to his balls - fingers stroking, tongue licking at them. He would have squirmed had he been able to. So far the dream was going wonderfully - he hadn't even thought of some of the things that mouth was doing - he wondered idly if his subconscious had dreamt the rest of it up, or if it was some vague memory.

The attention below abated again, and he felt a lean body press slowly and warmly against his as it gradually slid up against him. He felt hair tickle him just under the chin, and a cock press firmly against his leg. O-kay... this was strange.

The exhalation of breath across his body now came at chest height, flowing over his left nipple just before a deep, nearly-inaudible moan of "John," caught his attention, moments before the soft lips came down upon it, suckling and driving all thoughts from his brain for a short while.

Oh! A sex dream about Sherlock. That made more sense then. He'd often found himself drawn to his flatmate, even if no other man had ever caught his attention. Sherlock was a force unto himself. He wasn't surprised that his flatmate would show up in his dreams - Sherlock was one for bending the rules. This wasn't exactly the first dream he'd had about him either - just the most detailed - all the others seemed like mere flashes and sensations; this, this was much, much better. And hell, it was a dream; it could do what it wanted. If this is where it took him, so be it.

He felt the cock pressed up against his thigh twitch slightly as more attention was paid to his chest. The hands now played up and down his sides, once or twice travelling over his limp arms and down over his fingers before replaying their route once again; the mouth suckling and moving across his chest from nipple to nipple, tongue playing across them, making them pebble up nicely. Pleasantly sleepy but aroused, John felt his heart start to beat faster.

The body, Sherlock, he corrected, slid further up against his own, cocks nestling together and drawing a deep moan from somewhere close to his ear. John whimpered a bit as they pressed together, then Sherlock began to move against him.

A brief pause and he felt a hand slide between them, grasping both of them and coating them in something slick, before withdrawing. He'd almost complained at the loss of touch before movement against him started up again. John moaned low and desperate as the sensation swept over him, then ended in a high squeak as teeth nipped at his neck and the spot just below his ear was sucked and nibbled.

He felt the warmth of the body above him, moving rhythmically, hypnotically, as it pressed against him - the exhalation of breath into his ear, causing gooseflesh to ripple over him, his own moans mixed with those of this invisible Sherlock as he rocked, flesh pressed against flesh as each pass stimulated the other.

John couldn't help it: he was panting now. The build up had been slow and erotic, teasing and tension-building, but now he wanted to come more than anything in his life, and yet the pace was still slow, agonisingly steady. "Sherlock..." he panted out softly, hesitantly repeating it again after another minute, slowly turning it into a mantra as time ticked by. He groaned, and long moments later heard the word, "please..." pass through his lips, his thoughts foggy enough that he'd almost been unaware that he had spoken at all.

The body above him, Sherlock, he corrected again, arched a bit, the rutting pace picking up speed slowly, the head of silken curls now nuzzled in against the curve of his neck, exhaled air coming more quickly, catching up with John's own breathing.

Faster and harder they ground past each other, the tension building up to unbearable amounts. John let out a little sob as his insides knotted, breathing became ragged but his body, still unmoving, spent itself against the one above it, waves of pleasure crashing over him repeatedly.

He felt teeth bite tentatively against his neck as a gasp rent itself from Sherlock's lips, his body stilled, then began to shake time and again as more warmth poured out between them.

There was panting in his ear, then lips pressed to his cheek, his forehead, then briefly to his lips as Sherlock slid off of him. He felt Sherlock's arm drape itself across his waist, covers pulled up and adjusted, then silence as he fell back to sleep, safely ensconced in his flatmate's embrace.

Sherlock waited to hear John's breathing even out before he stirred. He stealthily removed himself from John's bed, pulling the covers back into place and moving to pull the cardboard-and-blanket blockade from the window.

A few moments later, he moved to pick up a small syringe from the bedside table. It had worked _like a dream_ he thought, a small smile flitting across his lips at the unintended pun.

His research into the GABA neurotransmitters had proved quite productive, especially when the added gamma-aminobutyric acid and glycine were combined with a low dose of hospital grade narcotic - they provided the perfect dream state, plus the sleep paralysis he'd so hoped on inducing.

Tonight had gone better than he could have hoped, though leaving John sleeping by himself was difficult to do, he knew he'd have to. This had been the first time John had been awake when Sherlock's attentions had been turned to him, even if John hadn't realised it. He had seemed open-minded enough tonight, there'd been no crisis, no objection when he'd felt Sherlock press against him - just sighs and moans and, Sherlock's flesh thrilled at the memory of his own name being pulled from John's lips, repeatedly.

Perhaps if he was allowing Sherlock into his dreams, it wouldn't be long before the need for stealth would no longer be required and he'd be invited to John's bed without any need for sedation. Although, he thought, not that a repeat wouldn't be amazing. John pliant and sleepy below him had been a turn-on he'd only begun to investigate.


End file.
